


Fever Dreams

by TrulyMightyPotato



Series: Royal Flush [39]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: As you do, Blood, Hallucinations, Implications of violence, Nightmares, PJ regrets some of his decisions while unconscious and battling death, a lot of guilt tbh, implications of drinking blood, people made of blood and ice, very brief actual violence except it's a hallucination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27768721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyMightyPotato/pseuds/TrulyMightyPotato
Summary: PJ faces infection and his own morals criticizing him. Takes place during chapter 31 of Playing Phantom Cards.
Series: Royal Flush [39]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/699969
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	Fever Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this one, so I really hope you enjoy!

_ Wednesday, July 16, 1924 _

The room was too hot, swelteringly uncomfortable. PJ shifted restlessly, dragging his eyes open a sliver with a great deal of effort—it was like someone had put a weight on his forehead and it made every movement incredibly difficult.

He wasn’t in his bedroom.

No, no, he’d been on his way to visit the Family farm.

That explained the plain wallpaper and paneling on the walls. The window propped open, rain pouring down outside (probably the source of the lovely breeze brushing over his heated skin). The wooden desk pressed into the corner… though not the bag sitting on it and the various medical supplies laid out, nor the person standing with their back to him.

He tried to ask what had happened, why everything was so hot and heavy, but his tongue was too thick and his mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

The person at the desk- or maybe it was a table- turned and looked at him, then set whatever they had in their hands down and walked over.

They were wearing a green mask.

Alone in a room with a Faceless. This was how he was going to die, wasn’t it?

The Faceless examined him, then pulled a thermometer out of their pocket and, after shaking it a few times, gently slid it in his mouth, under his tongue.

Ugh.

He pulled away, only shifting uncomfortably before the weight got to be too much and he was exhausted again.

“You’re close to consciousness, at least,” the Faceless murmured. “Not fully there, though.” They pressed a hand to his forehead, and a wave of cool washed over him. “Your fever definitely hasn’t broken.”

PJ wanted to protest. He was awake, obviously; he was seeing all of this—but his jaw and tongue were too heavy to move, too stiff to force.

The Faceless removed the thermometer and examined it. A long pause, and then a softly muttered curse.

They turned back to the table, wiping down the thermometer with something, and poured a small amount of water in a glass.

The cursing was probably a bad sign.

PJ wanted to keep watching, but it was like he was falling through his blankets, almost floating, drifting into the sweet release of unconsciousness.

♣♥♠♦

He could hear Jordan.

He looked around frantically, trying to place where he was. Nothingness stretched out on all sides of him, deeper than darkness, full of void.

“Jordan?” He called. “Jordan, where are you?”

The murmured voice didn’t grow any more distinct.

PJ swallowed and started walking.

The void seemed to bend around him, twisting with every movement. He wasn’t sure he was walking in a straight line. He wasn’t sure he was walking on the ground, either. He wasn’t even sure there  _ was _ ground here.

“We failed them, you know.” Molly’s voice cut across the void, bitter and sharp. “It was our responsibility to save them, and we failed them. It’s our fault.” A pause. “Your fault.”

PJ turned, trying to see where she was. When he finally looked up, he stumbled forward, and what had been above him became in front of him.

Molly knelt there, in a pool of blood. It soaked her dress, coated her heels and her legs, smeared across her cheek and gloves- no, those were her hands, her gloves were lying discarded next to her.

The middle part of the pool of blood, next to her, laid an imprint that said a body had lain there. He’d seen that enough to know what it meant.

“I protected her.” Molly’s piercing eyes dug into him, into his soul, sinking into him with all of the bite and frigidity of being caught in an ocean riptide and dragged across sharp rocks. “I did what you asked, even though it put my Orchids in danger.” She stood slowly, blood dripping from her hands, the hem of her dress, the ends of her hair. “You couldn’t even find her, not until it was too late. You didn’t listen to Wiggles’ warnings, and you got shot.” She laughed bitterly, blood slowly streaking down her face like tears. “We both know if you had, then you’d have been able to react—you would have been able to intercept the car, get them both out.” She closed her eyes. “But you didn’t. You failed them. You failed her. You failed to keep her safe.”

Her eyes opened, zeroing in on him. “Do you remember what you promised me? You promised you’d keep her safe, PJ Ligouri. You promised.” Wind picked up, beginning to whip around them, blowing leaves in, whirling around and around, bringing the familiar streets near the Tiny Box—near Freddy’s—into view. “She stepped between you and a  _ gun, PJ,” _ Molly snarled, “and you can’t even keep your head on straight long enough to recognize an obvious ambush.” She clenched her fists, and thunder cracked overhead, illuminating the world in a flash of blue-green.

When the lightning faded, Molly was standing inches away from him, her gaze drilling into him, eyes the same color as the lightning crackling around them.

“You  _ promised,  _ PJ Liguori,” Molly hissed, holding up a familiar string of pink pearls, glistening with blood.

Sophie’s pearls.

He reached out for them, but she held them away from him.

“No, I don’t think so.” Molly’s eyes were cold, colder than the lightning, colder than the eyes of the dead. “You’ve proven you can’t be trusted. You’ve proven you don’t value her enough.” She raised her head, and thunder cracked overhead once more, tearing open the sky and letting shimmering rain pour down, soaking both of them instantly. “You’re just like any other man, leaving your messes for me to clean up.” She shook her head. “I see why Jack tried to kill you now.”

PJ gaped. The howling wind and the rain’s bitter cold had stolen his words.

Molly shook her head, the last of the blood washing free from her. “If she dies, her blood is on your hands.”

She turned and stepped into the rain.

She was gone.

A wail tore through the air, anguished, hurt, crippled with unimaginable pain.

PJ whirled, soaked hair plastered to his head, and gasped. “Sophie! Sophie, are you-”

Nothing.

He cursed and took off down the street, towards the familiar building of Freddy’s.

He skidded in through the front door, coming to a slippery stop as he recognized Felix sitting at one of the tables, the only functioning light in the speakeasy over him.

“Fe- what’s going on? Who was screaming?” PJ blinked, stepping towards his friend.

Felix blinked slowly and looked over at him, eyes empty and dull, like he’d been crying. “Screaming? No, no screaming here. You made sure of that when you shot Jack.”

PJ flinched at the mention of his dead friend—of the friend he’d murdered without hesitation. “I heard a scream.”

Felix shrugged slightly, bringing a familiar pink drink to his lips.

Mark’s Boxer.

“Where did you get that?” PJ asked, gaze flicking to it, then Felix’s drawn expression. “Is Mark here?”

Felix sighed, putting the glass down. “Why? Haven’t you failed him enough? You can’t just let him stay dead?”

“He’s not dead. We found him, remember? We found him two weeks ago, in that speakeasy. We tried to rescue him. He’s not dead.”

Felix leaned his elbow on the table, fingers intertwined into his hair, his hair that was normally so cared for and slicked back but now tangled and streaked with blood.

Felix’s hands were covered in blood.

“Felix- why is there blood...?”

“There’s blood on both of our hands, don’t you know?” Felix murmured, pulling the drink up to drink from it again. It seemed darker in the shadows, darker than pink. “Mark’s blood. Sophie’s blood. I drown in blood like innocents drowned in molasses, and you’ve slaughtered so many you revel in it now.” He looked up, blue eyes flaming, cutting into him like shrapnel from the car explosion. “Otherwise you would have hesitated with Jack.”

“I-” PJ swallowed, gaze lingering on Felix as his friend took another drink, the drink darker still. “That’s not true. I regret that decision every day of my life.”

Felix set the empty glass down on the table with a decided thud and stood, drawing himself up to his full height. The floor seemed to creak dangerously, an orange glow coming up from between the floorboards, flickering ominously.

The inside of the glass was coated with red residue, and a bloody handprint showed where Felix had gripped it. Felix scowled at him, revealing teeth and lips stained with blood and a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.

“Well we both have to live with our decisions, now don’t we.” Felix laughed, a wet, choking sound. “The two of us, curators of blood.”

“Felix- you’re bloody.”

He scoffed, putting one hand solidly on the table and leaning into it heavily, hair wild with dried blood and frame stiff and unsteady, like he wasn’t sure if he was going to pass out or lunge at PJ.

“Alcohol, blood, does it matter?” Felix’s eyes burned into PJ, orange sparks drifting up in the air behind him. “They’re both illegal. They’re spilled for each other all the time.  _ We’ve _ spilled both, we  _ deal _ in both, we  _ run empires _ fueled by both.”

“Whose blood is that?”

“We  _ failed _ them,” Felix snarled, “and  _ his _ blood will forever be on our hands and in every drink we take.” He threw his arm out behind him, pointing to the darkness behind him, a darkness that was falling away with the growing sparks and heat and the light from the floorboards.

There laid a mangled body, its pool of blood growing, growing, drawing closer and closer to them, face and hands scarred, eyes wide and expression forever frozen in one of terror and pain.

Mark.

“Mark- Mark I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to fail you, you never deserved this-” the words tumbled out of his mouth, and PJ stumbled back, then screeched as his foot broke through the floorboards. Flames lept up, wrapping around his leg, dragging him down, down, down through the floor and into the empty space below-

His eyes snapped open, breathing heavy and gasping, and he dimly recognized that hands were holding him down, hands pressing into his injuries, spreading fire across his body. Some part of him even realized they were Jordan’s, though he wasn’t focused on that.

No, the entirety of his attention was focused on a hauntingly familiar figure standing at the foot of his bed.

Jack.

Jack, missing half his face, blood frozen into spikes away from the deadly wound, skin blue and cracked like ice, gaze impassive but fixed unwaveringly on him.

“I didn’t mean it,” PJ babbled, “let me change my mind, please,  _ please.” _

Jack’s mouth fixed itself in a flat line, face cracking and crumbling like a broken icicle.

“You don’t understand,” PJ begged, wrestling against the hands holding him back, trying to reach out a placating, desperate, hand to Jack. “We need you, we can’t save them alone. I can’t save them. I’ve failed everyone- I have to make things right.”

“You never could.” Jack spat, fresh blood spilling from his face, freezing as it rolled down his face and dripped onto his shirt. “You murdered me. You  _ murdered _ me, Liguori, and you knew what you were doing. First, you betrayed me, then you took my life. Some friend you are.” He shook his head, flinging blood onto the floor. “I should have never let my guard down. Once a linguine, always a linguine. Should have known potatoes and pasta don’t go together. Ruins the whole meal.”

PJ swallowed down a hysterical laugh, instead gasping out, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” PJ broke himself off as a horrifying thought slammed into him. “Your children, your  _ children,  _ are they okay, are they cared for-”

“You don’t get to talk about them!” Jack roared, throwing a hand in a shoving motion, sending blood splattering across the wall. “You orphaned them. You were so  _ blinded _ by power and revenge that you didn’t even  _ think _ about their future.” The apparation snarled, blue frozen teeth stained with blood, blood that was running from his nose, from his mouth, from the gaping hole where his eye used to be. “You condemned them to  _ death.  _ I was all they had and you stole me from them.”

_ “Jack-” _ PJ sobbed. “Don’t make things end like this, I’m sorry, I’m  _ sorry.” _

Jack’s frozen and bloody form crackled, the blood bristling. His hands bunched into fists, fingers falling loose with loud snaps. “Don’t have  _ me _ end things? Did you  _ forget _ what happened the last time we met, PJ Liguori? Did you  _ forget _ that  _ you _ ended things?  _ You.” _ He raised his frozen, shattering arm, blood dripping from the cracks. “Don’t forget  _ you _ did this.”

PJ faltered, and the hands pressing on him slammed him back into the bed, pinning his arms. He struggled, eyes wide as Jack walked up to him, fingers regrowing out of frozen blood. He pulled something into view—a gun, frozen red metal glistening darkly in the dim light—and pulled the trigger.

♣♥♠♦

A gentle summer breeze blew over his face, and his eyes flickered open. The world was blurry, like it was every morning before he put on his glasses, but he could pick out enough to recognize he was still in the room at the farmhouse.

“About time you woke up,” Jordan’s familiar voice said gruffly. “Your fever broke ten hours ago.”

PJ blinked. “How long have you been here?”

“They called me here yesterday morning.” Jordan shifted forward in the chair. “How are you feeling?” He hesitated. “Some of your dreams... your hallucinations... they seemed pretty vivid. You woke up screaming more than once.”

PJ hesitated. “They... were. The ones I remember, anyway.”

“Need to talk about it?”

PJ shook his head. Somehow, he didn’t think Jordan would take too kindly to what he’d seen. “It’s fine. I’m sure I’ll forget them soon enough.” He sat up slowly, pressing himself up with the arm not in a sling across his chest. “What day is it? How long was I out?”

“You didn’t miss anything exciting.” Jordan shrugged. “Granted, the most exciting thing was you, so.”

PJ sighed, then hesitated. “How’s Wiggles?”

“He’s still badly injured, but nothing is infected. It’ll take time for him to heal, but he should be okay.”

PJ settled back against pillows, letting out a long sigh, eyes drifting closed. “Good. That’s good.”

“Hey, you don’t get to sleep,” Jordan said. “Especially since you haven’t eaten in a few days.”

PJ opened his eyes. “I don’t suppose you brought my spare glasses?”

“I did. They’re on the bedside table next to you.” Jordan stood. “I’ll go let people know you’re awake and get something for you to eat.” A pause. “Welcome back to the world of the living, Peej. It’s good to have you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I was tempted to put "Vampire Felix" as a tag but figured it would probably confuse things. I suppose that'll have to wait for a different kind of story.


End file.
